The 53rd Golden Age of Science Fiction MEGAPACK; Geoff St. Reynard

by Geoff St. Reynard

  Lora and I had announced our mating time. I had three days in which to find a cave cat and make our rug. Yes, a cave cat; I had decided to give Halfspoor a rest for a while....

  After the initial surprise of Dy-lee’s appearance, our people had all become very much interested in him. He was laden with gifts to take home to the caves: bone tools and hatchets, metal knives, fine arrows and bows, skins of white deer and sleek owl feathers, everything they could think of which he might like.

  So now we sat together on the platform of my tree, our legs covered with rugs against the chill of the night, and our eyelids drooping with fatigue. Yet must I chatter a while longer, being reluctant to see this glorious day end.

  “Dy-lee,” I said, “many wanings of the moon will pass before we see an end to the changes that are going to happen among our folk, yours and mine. We will all be one folk soon.” He nodded and smiled, just as though he could understand me. “We have been kept a simple people, naive and guileless; and that may be good. I think it is, and I think we will not change our simplicity. We will only see things more plainly. And there will be less fear.”

  “Ahmusk,” said Dy-lee. “Friend Ahmusk!”

  I gripped his hand in the gesture I found so satisfying. “And with time, Dy-lee, we will find the answers to all sorts of questions, questions that intrigue me so that I can scarcely wait till morning to begin searching for the answers! Those whistles of yours, for instance—who made them, and how, and is the secret of them truly that their noise pierces the ears and maddens an animal with fear, or what?

  “And your pictures, Dy-lee, and our music: we will trade these to each other and spend a thousand thousand contented hours with them!”

  He yawned, and lying down, pulled the furs up to his chin. Still would I talk a few moments longer.

  “And some day, Dy-lee, we will know what caused your folk to grow all shaggy, while we remained smooth-skinned. Maybe we will find out how the men of the far olden times moved their great stones, and why they made the tall inclosures.

  “First of all, of course, we must learn to speak to one another. I shall learn your language, and you shall learn mine....”

  “But,” put in a grumbling voice from the next tree, “if you do not close your mouth and go to sleep, Bear-throat, I fear you will not live to see tomorrow’s sun, and so will miss all the fun. Go to sleep!”

  I chuckled. It was Lora’s father. “Good-night, then,” I said. “I shall wake you early in the morning.”

  “I’m sure you will. Good-night!”

  I rolled over beside Dy-lee and composed myself in my furs for the night. At once a vast comfortable weariness came over me.

  “Perhaps,” I murmured, “perhaps we shall even discover some day why it is that the bones of Sunset Fields do not decay!”

  Dy-lee answered me with a soft grunt and then a snore. I laughed to myself with happiness, and fell asleep in the light of the full tawny moon.

  THE BUTTONED SKY

  Originally published in Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy, August 1953.

  CHAPTER I

  The squire he sat in Dolfya Town,

  He swilled the blood-dark wine:

  “O who can blight my happiness,

  Or face the power that’s mine?”

  Then up there spoke his daughter fair:

  “The priest can end your joy;

  The globe can sap your might away,

  And the Mink can you destroy!”

  —Ruck’s Ballad of the Mink

  * * * *

  The day that Revel killed a god, he woke early. There was a bitter taste in his mouth, and a pain in his ear where somebody’d hit him during a shebeen brawl the night before. He rolled over on his back. The bed was a hollowed place in the earth floor, filled with leaves and dried grass and spread with yellow-brown mink skins sewn into a big blanket; he’d slept on it every night of his twenty-eight years, but this morning it felt hard and uncomfortable.

  The water gourd was empty. In the cold gray mists of dawn he groped his way sleepily to the well behind the hut, and drew up the bucket.

  “Damn the gentry!” he burst out. The bucket, an ancient thing made of oak slats pegged together with wooden dowels, was half filled with dirt and rotten brush. “Curse their lousy carcasses to hell!” he yelled, and, suddenly scared, looked around to see if perhaps a god was floating somewhere near him. But no yellow glimmering showed in the mists.

  Laboriously he cleaned out the well, dropping the bucket time after time and dragging up loads of trash. Some roving band of gentry had fouled the water for sport. Anything that hurt the ruck, made them more work or injured them in any way, was sport for the squirarchy.

  At last he got a bucket of cold and almost clean water, filled the big gourd and carried it back to the one-room hut. The morning that had begun badly was getting worse; his mother’s limp was painful to see; she must have had a hard night. Bent and gray and as juiceless as the grass of their beds, she slept more lightly and fretfully with every passing month. Many years before a squire had ridden her down in the lanes of Dolfya Town, as she scurried out of the path of his great stallion, and her broken leg had mended crookedly. A few hours on the mink-covered bed crippled her up so that moving was an agony.

  With the impious brain at the center of his skull—Revel had long before decided that he had a number of brains, one obedient, one rebellious, one dull, one keen and inquisitive, and so on—with the impious brain he now cursed the gods and the gentry and the priests, and everyone above the ruck who preyed on them and made their lives so stinking awful. If he had thought then of killing a god, the idea would have seemed pleasant indeed. But quite impossible, of course, for a man of the ruck did not touch a god, much less slay one.

  He did not think of such a thing, but cursed the gods briefly and then turned off his impious brain and began to wolf down his food. He paid no attention to what he ate—it was the same old bread of wild barley seeds, the same old boiled rabbit.

  When he finished, he glanced at his mother, feeling sorry for her, wishing that she would go to the shebeens with him and have at least a little happiness before she died. He wondered if she had ever known any joy, any hope such as he had in drunken flashes now and then of belief that life might some day be better for the ruck. He shook his head, grabbed his miner’s pick, booted his brother in the ribs to waken him, and left the miserable hut to walk to the mine for his day’s work.

  The day was brightening, and above him in concentric circles to the horizon and beyond hovered the eternal red and blue buttons. He looked up grimly. Always there, in all the spoken history of man, stretched above the world to keep watch on every action of the ruck. The buttons were full of gods, omnipotent, omnipresent.

  The mine was a mile from his hut, which lay on the outskirts of Dolfya. It was halfway down a long valley, a gut between hills pitted with many other mines. There coal was dug for the gentry and the priests. He walked up to the entrance, gave his name telepathically to the god-guard at the top of the shaft, and went down the ladders until he’d reached his level. Another god passed him there, its aura of energy just touching his skin and tingling it into small bumps.

  * * * *

  Shutting off the thoughts of his various brains from any probing mind that might be eavesdropping, he said to himself, Always, always they’re near a man! You go out of your hut and there’s a god, a big golden globe hanging in the air shoving its tentacles at you and reading your mind. You come down the mine shaft and every hundred feet or so you see the yellow luminosity. Why can’t they leave us alone! Why can’t they stick to their temples, and exact their worship on Orbsday, instead of all week long, all day long, every day in the year!

  He came to his work place, a dead-end tunnel. Jerran was there before him, as usual. Revel grinned at him. Jerran was a runty wisp of a man, with a face the color of old straw, and he had been Revel’s friend since the day he came to the mine from distant Hakes Town by the sea. A wonderful
drinking companion, Jerran, but he wouldn’t brawl ... strange! He was forever pulling Revel out of fights and trying to teach him serenity.

  As Revel greeted him, he involuntarily glanced at the end of the tunnel. There, behind a carefully casual erection of boulders, lay their secret cave. They’d broken into it the morning before, and after no more than a hasty glimpse of unknown wonders, and a check to see that no globes were in sight, they’d walled up the opening and begun to dig along the shaft’s sides. Revel wasn’t quite sure why he had followed Jerran’s lead in keeping it secret, but the brain which had decided to do it must be the rebellious one. All secrets were taboo to the ruck, who were required to report all finds to the gentry or the god-guards.

  Now a globe came drifting down the corridor, and Revel got quickly to work, prying coal from a vein with his pick. The thing passed him, flicking his mind lightly with its own, and went on to the end of the tunnel. He watched it from the tail of his eye. Its glow brightened with interest; it shifted back and forth before the rampart of rocks.

  They hadn’t kept a tight enough check on their excitement yesterday! The globes could sense emotions long after the man who’d had them left a spot, and if the emotion were anger or grief or strong excitement, the globes could detect their residue as much as forty-eight hours later.

  The thing floated back to them, briskly now, and ordered Revel telepathically to pull down some of the rocks at the end.

  He eyed it coolly, his various brains walled with the protective screen that he had learned to erect between his thoughts and the outside world. This screen was made of shallow ideas, humdrum speculations on prosaic things—the last woman he’d had, the good feeling he got from working this rich vein of coal after some days of poor luck, even (to make the god think it was hearing secret desires) a wish that he might taste the wine that the gentry drank. He could throw up the screen and forget it, using his core of brains for serious plans.

  A dozen rocks displaced, he thought, and we’re doomed. For not telling the gods about the cave, he and Jerran would be given to the squires for the next big hunt.

  So, without much hope of living through the next minute, but believing it was the only thing he could do now, he shoved Jerran to one side, raised his pick and slammed it with all his might into the center of the small, gold, eight-tentacled sphere.

  And Revel had killed a god!

  The feel of the pick slashing through it told him that: it was like hitting an overripe melon. The globe recoiled, dragged itself off the pick, and sank toward the floor, wobbling and dripping yellow ooze, with its aura of energy fading quickly into air. Jerran said quietly, “No others in sight. We’re lucky!” and began to make a hole in a pile of discarded rocks. “Help me hide it, Revel.”

  “You can’t hide it,” he said dully. “They’re telepathic, after all. It must have signaled its consorts.”

  “They can’t hear or send messages through rock,” said Jerran, working away. Revel automatically started to help him.

  “How do you know?”

  “We’ve proved it.”

  Revel heard the phrase, wondered who “we” might be; but so much had happened in the last seconds that he did not question Jerran. He couldn’t absorb all the shattering facts. A man could not only touch a god, he could murder it! The gods were not all-powerful, for they could not perform telepathy if rock were in the way. Truly it was a morning of wonders. The world was falling around him.

  * * * *

  He stared at the limp corpse of the globe. The tentacles were already shriveling up, the emanation of energy that surrounded the living orbs was gone. He bent, sniffed; no odor. He peered at it keenly, in the soft blue light of the mine’s lanterns, then straightened.

  A hand fell on his shoulder.

  He spun on one heel, the pick arcing round to gut whoever was behind him. He had a glimpse of a short red beard and a popping walleye, and stopped his whirl by an instantaneous checking of his whole muscular system. The pick’s point, still splattered with god’s gore, was nudging his brother’s belly.

  “Nobody could have halted such a swing but you, Revel,” said Rack absently. His good eye, ice blue and sharp as a bone needle, was fixed on the dead globe. “What happened?”

  “An accident,” said Jerran. “The god interposed itself between your brother’s pick and the coal.”

  “That’s right,” said Revel. He had been lying to his brother for years, but he never grew reconciled to it; still, Rack was a man with but one brain, and that one servile and obedient to every whim of the gentry, the priests, the gods. So he had to be lied to.

  Rack brought his gaze to Revel’s tense face. “I got in the way of your pick,” he said heavily. “You have the keenest nerves, the strongest body in the mines. This was no accident.”

  Revel began to grow cold in the head and the bowels. If Rack was convinced that he’d slain the god on purpose, then he’d report him. The religion that held the world so tightly was greater than any family bonds. He looked up at Rack. The man was a giant towering four inches over Revel’s six feet one, and sixty pounds heavier. Rack’s eyes were blue and white, Revel’s lustrous brown; the elder’s hair and beard were flame-colored, the younger had a sleek chocolate-brown thatch with a hint of rich black in its sheen, and was clean-shaven.

  I’d hate to kill you, big man, thought Revel, but if I must, to save my neck, I will.

  Jerran thrust his pick under the flaccid corpse and tossed it with one quick motion into the hole. He piled rocks on it, as Revel stamped the yellow ichor out thin and stringy, spread rock dust and jetty coal fragments over it till no sign of the murder remained.

  “I’ll report it,” said Rack, apparently making up his mind.

  “Then I’ll say you did it,” snapped Jerran, turning on him like a mouse baiting a bear. “What chance would you stand in the temple against me, whose cousin serves in the mansion of Ewyo of Dolfya?”

  It was true, Jerran was slightly higher in the ruck than the brothers, being related to a servant of the gentry. Revel hoped Rack would be scared off by the threat. He had become perfectly cold now and could in the blinking of an eyelash bury his pick in Rack’s head, but he didn’t want to do it.

  When Rack said nothing, Revel spoke. “Brother, agree to hold your tongue, or by Orb, I’ll cut you down where you stand!”

  Rack glanced at his own pick. “You could do it,” he acknowledged. “You’re fast enough. All right. I promise.” He turned to his work stolidly; only Revel could see that he was blazing with anger.

  The three began to dig coal from the wall. Revel kept glancing at the small Jerran. What was there to the man that he had never suspected? How did he know that globes were stymied by rock? Why had he taken the death of the god so lightly?

  What was Jerran, anyhow?

  CHAPTER II

  The squire has gathered all his kin,

  To hunt the fox so sly;

  ’Tis not a beast with paws and brush,

  But a man like you or I!

  They hunt him down the thorny glen,

  And up the hillside dark;

  “O hear him gasp and hear him sob,

  Whenas our hounds do bark!”

  —Ruck’s Ballad of the Mink

  * * * *

  When Revel was due for a rest space, he went through the blue-tinged dusk of the mine, cleaned his arms and face at the washers, scrubbing the coal dust from his big hands, and climbed the ladders, up and up, till day shone in his face.

  He stood beneath the cross-beam of the entrance, sucking in clean air. The red and blue buttons shone in the sun; far down the valley a globe passed between trees, bent on some private business. Another floated by him into the mine; under it trotted a zanph, one of the ugly beasts, six-legged and furry with the head of a great snake, that followed the globes and sometimes attacked men on orders from the hovering gods.

  Would the deities discover that one was missing? If they found the corpse, he and Jerran would be foxes for the g
entry....

  Revel was a man of the ruck. The ruck was millions and millions of souls, faceless, without rights; Revel had some little protection, more than most others, being a miner and therefore important to the gentry. The gentry numbered thousands, and they had many rights—owning great estates, lighting their homes with candles, drinking wine legally, keeping fierce dogs and going where they pleased on big wild horses. No man of the ruck could touch one of the gentry and live. The gentry, the squires who owned guns and hunted men three times a week, men called “foxes”—it was whispered in the illegal drinking huts, the shebeens, that the squires had once been members of the ruck. Above there were the priests, who had always from the dawn of time been of the priestcraft, being born a notch lower than the gods themselves, who were the golden globes.

  “Our Orbs who dwell in the buttoned sky,” said Revel aloud, and spat. Before that day he wouldn’t have dared to think of such an action.

  He walked out on the shelf of rock before the mine. Something moved at the far end of the valley, a brown and silver speck that swiftly became a horse and rider, rocketing toward him.

  It was a girl, her silver gown pulled up to the tops of her thighs so she could sit astride; she appeared to be having trouble with her mount. Passing beneath Revel, swearing loudly at the plunging horse, she continued for a hundred feet, then fell in a swirl of silver cloth as the brute reared.

  Revel leaped down the rock shelf as the horse cantered away. He ran to the girl, who lay flat on her back, long white legs bared below the disordered gown. She was blonde, tall, beautifully slicked. No rucker wore such clothing, or rode a bay stallion, much less looked so groomed and cleanly; she was a squire’s daughter.

  As he bent down she opened eyes the shade of sunlight on gray slate.